Broken mirrors

A few days ago, I shared a story regarding my previous, and last, experience with D/s.  A good experience, a good memory before it broke me.  But now, because I so desperately need to release it from my mind, I would like to share the experience, one of them at least, that shattered me the most.

When I met Jason, I was confident.  Borderline cocky at times.  I’m not stunningly beautiful or model-thin, but I was comfortable in my body and how I looked.  I was happy with the person I was.  He told me that that had been one of the things that drew him to me.

Then he developed a serious relationship with Jack Daniels.  He was a different person, apparently saw me as a different person.  In hindsight, I should have known.  He had expressed concern that I would find someone ‘younger and better’ if I kept up with my workout routines.  I shrugged it off as a joke, but I stopped working out.  That’s just one example, but I could write a book….

Living four hours from each other, we couldn’t spend as much time together so we spent a lot of time texting.

Send me a pic.  I miss you.

I did and, because I had just taken all my makeup off for the evening, I captioned it: Scary Stella.  I wasn’t serious, he’d seen me look much worse.

You’re so insecure.  Send another one. 

Again, I did and he was satisfied.  I didn’t know it then, but this was the first minuscule crack.

It kept happening.  He asked (not that it was an option) for pics and I sent them.  Then it turned into something else entirely.

Tell me why you hate yourself.

I don’t hate myself, dinosaur.  You know that.

Yes, you do.  If you didn’t, you wouldn’t care so much about working out or about makeup or about your clothes.

(P.S. Makeup was my favorite hobby, my job at the time was in fashion retail, and working out was something my doctor had suggested to help with my depression.)

LOL. What?  How am I supposed to have a makeup blog without actually wearing makeup.  You see me all the time without.

Fine, Stella.  We can talk about it this weekend.

By the time I got to his house that weekend, he was already drunk.  When I opened the door, he asked me to grab him a beer from the fridge on my way through to the living room.

You don’t think you’ve had enough?

I knew it was the wrong thing to say the second the words left my mouth.  His face changed when he was angry, twisted into someone I didn’t even recognize. I froze as he walked towards me.

You really want to have this discussion?  You think I have a problem?  Let’s discuss YOUR problems, Stella. 

He grabbed me by my hair and pulled me into the bedroom.  It was a long time before I ever wore a ponytail again.  My instinct in these situations is to relax in the hopes that he too would relax.  You know, soothing words… No no, I don’t think you have a problem at all.  I love you so much, I just want you to be happy. 

It didn’t work.  Instead he forced me to stand in front of the mirror with him.

Look at yourself and tell me what you hate.  Don’t lie to me. 

I had nothing to say.

We can stand here all night.

Eventually, I started to lie to get him to stop.  My hair was too flat, my thighs were too big, my skin wasn’t perfect, maybe I didn’t care for my wide hips… I really hate my feet.  God, I can’t stand my forehead, it’s so big.  Ugh, I guess I really could stand to lose a few pounds… I have no muscle tone.  I am disgusting.

And just like that, I shattered at his feet.

You’re right.  I do hate myself.

And then I started to believe it.  It happened frequently, always fueled by whiskey.  Those lies became my truths, all the while he thought he was fixing me.

Taking photos of myself or having them taken, makes me physically ill.  Sometimes I force myself.  Looking at myself in the mirror?  I don’t do it.  I can’t even look myself in the eye… and when I do, all I see is a weak little girl with bad skin, flat hair, and huge thighs.  I’ve smashed countless mirrors out of pure anger and hate.  I’ve learned restraint since then, but… I still prefer not to look.

Jason took his insecurities and shoved them down my throat until… he killed me.





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